


think of the quietest thing

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, I just really felt compelled to write something bc episode three was So Good, I know Jester doesn't talk That Much but boy I do and projection Is A Thing, Short n sweet, also lmao remember when I said I wasn't gonna start shipping the new characters this early, anyway enough tags please enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 11:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13546572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: "I like people who talk to themselves...I like them, for they are double. They are here and elsewhere.” -Albert Camus(She’s a whirlwind in her own right—capricious and overwhelming. Fjord surrenders to it easily.)





	think of the quietest thing

Jester, Fjord has decided, talks.

A _lot._

She chatters and rambles and prattles on and on and on—her curious accent drawing wandering eyes that tend to keep wandering when they meet the golden-eyed gaze of a half-orc who has a stare like a throwing knife—evenly balanced and freshly sharpened.

But for as much as Jester talks—which, it cannot be overstated, is _a lot—_ she never seems to actually _say_ anything. Words tumble out of her endlessly, but nothing ever seems to come from it. She starts to ask them a riddle, then gets distracted by her own sentence, breaks off to tell them about some farmhand she met a few years back, which makes her snort at a joke only she understands and now she's explaining some of the finer parts of the thaumaturgy cantrip to them—

Fjord casts a cursory glance behind them, back the way they came. They've walked a solid two and a half miles down the Amber Road, and Jester has not made a single complete statement.

He glances back at his companions. Beau yawns loudly, arms hooked around the staff resting comfortably across her shoulders, and Jester is, naturally, still talking. And so on they walk.

Fjord doesn't mind her constant babble—he finds it oddly soothing in a way he's not particularly interested in thinking too hard about at this exact moment in time—and keeps and eye out and an ear open as they move along.

The habit only picks up in the presence of the silver-tongued Mollymauk. Fjord watches her at the edge of his vision—endlessly on the lookout for trouble but unwilling to allow his gaze to stray too far from her—as she squeals with delight when the lavender tiefling brandishes a deck of cards with a practiced flourish.

She commits to every expression wholeheartedly, he notes—face lighting up like daybreak when Molly presents her with a card, nose wrinkling up when she remarks on Caleb's particular odor, eyes glinting somewhat manically when she teaches Nott the rules to Quick Queen's Call. Fjord watches as this haphazard assortment of people—hardly able to be called a _group—_ leans in closer as Jester unintentionally dazzles them all.

She's an endless riot of color and sound to the point where Fjord feels like a bit of an idiot when he presses Nott and Caleb about being _watched_ when every eye in the tavern is most decidedly settled on the little blue tiefling at his side who has now—for the second time in thirty seconds—broken nearly every window in the establishment.

Beau applauds loudly. Caleb arches an eyebrow.

She chatters all throughout the carnival, naturally—Fjord glances over every so often to see her clinging to the sleeve of Caleb's robe, whispering something to him with gleaming eyes, or leaning across Beau to ask Yasha a series of rapid-fire questions that the great woman answers lazily, dual-colored eyes never straying from the performance. He feels restless is a crowd this size, but Jester seems to soak up the discord—bask in the frenzy.

Then everything goes to hell, and Fjord swears he sees a flicker of raw _delight_ on her face as the carnival is plunged into chaos.

He loses track of her for a moment in his rush to deal with the monster, but can still hear her on the fringes of the battle—cackling madly as a monster lunges for her duplicate, shouting in concern as the beast swings at Yasha, calling out her spells in ringing tones.

Even in the middle of a fight—a literal life-or-death clash with a horrifying creature that ripped through the ribcage of a woman like it was wet fucking _paper—_ she can't help but throw a maniac grin to the sliver of night sky exposed at the top of the tent and crow to what appears to be no one at all, _"Dude!_ Are you here because this is like, the coolest shit we've ever _seen!"_

And then—because it was inevitable—her chatter gets her into trouble. Because that's the second thing Fjord has decided about Jester—she is a _magnet_ for trouble. More so than that—she's like a _beacon_ for it. Something about her invites trickery and mischief in a way that makes him wonder where her chosen Domain ends and where she begins and he _knows_ everything about her loud, disruptive openness kills every plan he's ever had for a nice, quiet, simple journey but he can't even find it in himself to be bothered.

What _does_ bother him, however, is the way the guard takes a definitive step towards the little blue tiefling as she feigns illness, and Fjord responds by matching the man's stride, moving to place himself between the two, one hand reaching for his falchion, strength that felt sapped after the fight mysteriously surging back twofold as he fixes the guard with a deadly golden glare.

And even as they all quickly clarify the situation—Jester standing on tiptoe to peer over Fjord's shoulder even though she can hardly make up for their height difference—Fjord knows, intuitively, that this will not be the last time he'll be moved to stand between Jester and something that wants to harm her. In fact, he thinks with a dull kind of reluctance, he figures he might as well set up shop in this space.

It keeps happening as their investigation unfolds. Jester is constantly proposing new ideas and suggestions and theories. She swings from one emotion to the next without pause—trusting her bag of tricks, her own wits, and her endless chatter to carry her through whatever situation she lands in.

And—Fjord has to admit—it hasn't failed her yet.

But even as the group pulls together to solve their collective problem, and Jester works shoulder-to-shoulder with Molly and Nott and Beau and Caleb—Fjord can't help but get caught on the way she leans into his space at the tavern, eyebrow quirked with mischief but her eyes oddly serious as she reminds him— _"Fjord, we could leave the same way we came in."_

Not Fjord _and_ Beau—not even Fjord and her new friends who are honestly probably better at magic than he is— _just_ Fjord.

Something tightens in his chest at it, and before he can form any kind of coherent response, she's gone again, dazzling Nott with wiggling fingers and an alluring smile as she mimes casting magic at the small goblin girl.

And as he passes Beau and Jester's room on the way to his own—Molly at his side, arms full with his coat and scimitars—he can just faintly hear a brief snippet of soft chatter, accompanied by the sound of what he guesses is a quill scratching against parchment. He can also hear Beau snoring, so it's obvious she isn't talking to the monk, and the idea of Jester sitting and talking quietly to herself endears him in a way that even catches Molly's attention, as the lavender tiefling takes in the faint smile on Fjord's face with a raised brow.

She knocks on his door first thing in the morning—he pulls it back to reveal a bright and cheerful and downright devious little blue tiefling—and when she flashes a grin at him with an _"ayyy ohhh ayyy_ —good morning!" he doesn't even hesitate to mimic her greeting warmly, basking in the beam she gives him for it.

Even in her disguise, Jester's personal vendetta against silence continues, and Fjord watches—lips quirked in amusement—as she stumbles between her normal, lilting accent and this curious rough drawl she's decided to give her disguised form, drawing twice the amount of confusion as she invents hasty lies and interrogates townsfolk in her two-toned cadence.

The third thing Fjord decides is Jester is something of a _panicker_.

Heavy silence descends upon the campground as Molly falls at the hands of the undead guard, hardly any thought spared for Nott's victory as they all begin to stow their weapons, wordlessly turning towards their unconscious ally—

The quiet breaks as a little blue tiefling suddenly rushes out of the tent, hiking her skirts up to reach Molly's side as she skids into a ungraceful stop beside the fallen swordsman—blabbering the entire time.

"Molly! _Molly!_ Oh gods, Molly hold on— _shit_ —Molly oh _no—!"_

She manages to stabilize her fellow tiefling, and Fjord watches—amused and intrigued—as she rustles through her pack, searching for some kind of medicine kit to heal him. She pulls out a notebook, some quills, a map, what appears to be paint supplies, and a fair amount of wrapped pastries in various stages of consumption before Beau leans down to Jester's crouched form, arching a disbelieving eyebrow at the supplies strewn around her.

"You have a six-pack of doughnuts but you don't have a healer's kit in there?" the monk drawls. "And you're the cleric?"

Jester rears back, panic still bright in her eyes as a defense comes tumbling out—

"I'm the cleric? I'm _the_ cleric?" she sputters, hands thrown wide and narrowly avoiding clocking a still unconscious Mollymauk in the face where he lies beside her. "What is this? I've never, like, _traveled_ with a bunch of people that I thought would, like, _die_ in front of me, okay? I never needed a _healer's kit_ before, okay?"

She isn't _actually_ upset—Fjord doesn't know what Jester's true anger looks like but he has a feeling that he'll know it when he sees it—and as if the prove the shallowness of her sour mood, her expression brightens tenfold when Beau presents her with a healer's kit.

Beau offers casual congratulations, clearly unbothered by the whole exchange, while Jester clutches the kit to her chest with bright eyes.

"That's a mighty fine prize," Fjord tells her, and she swings her gaze to his, beaming.

She begins to rummage through it—Fjord can tell immediately that she has _no_ idea what she's doing and _gods_ it delights him—and he leans over her shoulder, asking if there's any vanilla extract or sprinkles tucked away.

The amused smirk she sends him over her shoulder is dazzling.

As a plan slowly comes together and they discuss how to best seek passage across the lake, Jester—eyes still gleaming after watching his round of trickery with the guard—brightly suggests that _he_ should talk to people, and the irony makes him smile.

But he takes on the role anyway—it's slightly hard to keep his concentration when he can feel Jester watching him with rapt attention—but playing the part of an old, grizzled seaman isn't the most complicated front he's ever put up, and after a quick bout of bartering and some overacting on his part, the ship hand agrees to take them out.

He chooses Beau to go collect the needed wine to complete the trade—he doesn't like the gleam in Nott's eyes and he doesn't want Jester out of his sight—and the monk sets off. Fjord watches her go, feeling a reasonable amount of smugness at having pulled off his trick successfully, when Jester pulls him aside.

He blinks down in surprise as she takes hold of his arm, dully realizing both of her tiny hands barely wrap around his bicep.

 _"_ _Fjord."_ Her voice is low and earnest—a conspiring whisper, like they're sharing some kind of private joke, or secret. He can't help but smile, spilt eyebrow quirking curiously.

"Yeah?"

"That—that voice you were doing." Her eyes are wide and bright, half-smile lightning up the side of her face. "It almost sounds like you _did_ live in Port Damali!"

He chuckles. "Right," he says easily, pleased that she's pleased. "Yeah."

She seems to misread his casual answer, and her hands tighten where she holds his arm. "I _like_ that voice," she tells him. Something seems to occur to her, and her eyes flip wide, tugging his arm closer. "I mean, I like this voice too though!" she hastens to add, nearly tripping over the words in her rush to get them out. _"Your_ voice."

Another smile warms his face. It's the second time she's remarked on liking the sound of his voice.

Not that he's counting or anything.

"Yeah," he says, not knowing what else to say.

"Yeah," she agrees, still smiling brightly and hanging off his arm.

Molly snorts at the exchange, examining the curve of his scimitar a few feet away.

A battle ensues not long after their time on the island—because of course it does—and Fjord's excitement at the thrill of a fight dims as Jester seems to fall under the dwarven girl's haunting spell, her bright eyes clouding over until sense slams back into her and she rears away, bringing a small fist to her chest to invoke duplicity and summon her copy.

Her phantasmal twin appears next to Fjord in a quick burst of shimmering light—it jars him slightly, even though he knows exactly what it is—and he forces himself to look away and track the real Jester as she darts through the trees.

The battle swells around them—Caleb illuminates the island with a string of floating lights, one of Nott's swings go wide, Beau grapples Toya to the ground with her staff, Molly nearly downs one of the imps with a single deadly slice of his scimitar, and Jester ducks a strike of the devil toad's claws. Fjord tries to keep track of everyone as the chaos of the battle grows—twice the intensity and lunacy of their carnival brawl and the fight at the campfire earlier that day.

Caleb takes a sharp hit from one of the imps and collapses to the ground, his lights winking out into nothingness, Nott brazenly leaps onto the giant creature to stab wildly at it, Molly's swords flash in the moonlight as he spins and ducks and swings, Jester can't quite escape the long arm of the devil toad and is knocked to the ground with a hard hit.

Fjord charges forward—spurned on by Caleb's fall and Jester's cry of pain—flipping the falchion over in his hands with a practiced gesture and raising the barnacle-coated pommel up to take aim at the devil toad and fire a blast of energy that scorches the beat from the inside-out—causing cracks and splinters that the beast tries in vain to hold together—and a wild sort of pride takes hold in his chest as it turns to ash, quickly swept away by the strong island winds.

But then it all falls apart—another thing Fjord resigns himself to getting used to traveling with this group—and Fjord's momentary high at slaying the devil toad plunges down as the imp's poisonous stinger sinks into his chest, and his breath gets caught in his lungs and he chokes on the lack of air and he hears his falchion clatter to the ground and he's _falling—_

His head slams against the forest floor, and he hears a sharp gasp and a very small, very terrified whisper of _"Fjord!"_

Night closes over him, and the sudden silence—the abrupt lack of Jester's familiar teasing and chatter after growing so used to it—feels foreign and cold. The darkness surges, dragging him under, and Fjord winces, feeling his grip on vitality slipping—

He swears he hears someone—Molly, perhaps—shout, "Jester, _no!_ That imp is still too close—!" and Jester responds not with a rush of words but one, singular scream of anger and frustration.

Activity flurries around him, faintly registering—he distantly hears the _ping!_ of a crossbow bolt hitting a shield, Nott frantically apologizing, the hiss of Molly's scimitars, Beau's shout of fury—until finally, the sound he's been waiting for as two tiny hands land hard on his chest and Fjord feels life surge back into him—

Jester is chattering above him, hands glowing faintly with the force of her magic, cloak askew, words tumbling out of her so quickly her mouth can't keep up and so the first thing he hears upon his return to consciousness is the tangled gibberish of a little blue tiefling.

He looks up blearily, and Jester gives him a weak smile, concern and fear still shining bright in her eyes.

"Hi," she tells him breathlessly. Her spell is complete, but her hands stay planted on his chest, her fingers curling into his shirt in the spaces between his armor, like she's prepared to physically anchor him here—to _her._

He offers her a crooked grin. "Hello yourself," he responds, voice low and husky and still heavy with recent unconsciousness.

Silence falls between them, and neither seem intent on breaking it.

Then Caleb surges back to consciousness beside them with a coughing fit, and Jester and Fjord look over in alarm at the injured wizard as he casts dancing lights in an attempt to understand his surroundings, and Nott goes tumbling off his chest with a squeal, momentarily blinded by the brightness. Molly quietly collects Toya from Beau, who surrenders the dwarven girl after a bit of resistance, and Frumpkin flutters down to land on her master's shoulder, nipping affectionately at his ear.

Fjord watches a smile slowly overtakes Jester's face as she looks around, realizing everyone is alright, and with a _whoop_ of excitement she pushes off Fjord's chest—he winces in pain but forces himself not to make a noise and spoil her mood—to grab hold of her illusion's arms and start spinning around in a circle, laughing and chattering and singing and bringing more sound to the island on her own than Fjord wagers its heard in many many years.

**Author's Note:**

> So how about that new campaign, huh kids?
> 
> I _know_ I'm gonna fall behind in episodes and I have a big project I'm doing this month anyway so I'm probably gonna have to dip out of Critical Role for a while so have a tiny fic before I leave. I adore every aspect of this new cast and cannot wait to see how they develop ~~I also know it's unreasonable but god I want them to go to Whitestone please Matt Mercer let Molly roll for history on Whitestone and not know a damn thing please oh please that's all I want~~
> 
> Took some liberties, but tried to stay as true to canon as I could. Luckily the Willinghams are out to fucking Destroy Me and flirt with each other at every given opportunity which made writing this pretty easy.
> 
> _Like this piece? Here’s my billboard!_
> 
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> You're all lovely people and I hope you have a great day! If you have anything you wanna chat about, always feel free to drop me a line. Other than that, it's fuckin Thursday y'all!


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